


A Cup of Kindness, A Measure of Love

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected mission takes Clint, Phil and Natasha away from S.H.I.E.L.D. after Christmas.  Clint is injured, Phil is in love, and Natasha knows best, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cup of Kindness, A Measure of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be nothing more than a New Years Eve companion piece to [Christmas Lights](http://archiveofourown.org/works/608460?view_adult=true%22), but it ended up being more of a h/c love-fest with a good measure of angst thrown in. I suspect there will be an epilogue ... 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns them, I own only my words

**A Cup of Kindness**

Clint's phone buzzing wakes him at dawn on Christmas. For a moment he's completely disoriented by his surroundings, which aren't his quarters at S.H.I.E.L.D. He's covered by a soft knit throw, he's wearing unfamiliar plaid flannel sleep pants that are the most comfortable things he's ever worn and a T-shirt with Captain America's shield on it. _Coulson_. He smiles slowly. They had spent a good part of Christmas Eve making out like teenagers on the couch; not going too far, but far enough to leave them both breathless and aching. It had been glorious,but so new that they had stopped short, cautious of taking things too far and too fast. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep tucked around Phil. 

As he wakes, he's aware that Phil is asleep, his head resting on the opposite arm of the couch, his legs tangled with Clint's. Without his suit, wearing sleep pants and another very worn long-sleeved Captain America shirt, he looks so damn young. His mouth vulnerable, his lashes resting on his cheeks. His hair is mussed, sticking up at odd angles, not combed smooth. He's without his armor, without his control. Clint didn't even know Coulson could have a 5 o'clock shadow. He finds that totally hot. 

_Bzzzzzzt_

Shit. The phone. Clint unlocks it, taps the message icon. The code displayed means report for duty immediately or Director Fury will kick your ass from here to eternity. _Fuck_. Clint stirs, nudges Coulson with his foot. "Coulson!" he hisses. "Wake up. Time to bust a move."

Phil opens an eye. "Did you just say time to _bust a move_? 

"Duty calls." He tosses the phone to Coulson. "I'm gonna shower, okay?" He's about to get up when Phil catches his hand and pulls him down for a kiss. "Last night ... "

"Yeah?" Clint asks warily.

"We need to do that a lot more." 

"Okay." Clint gives him a dazzling smile. "We can do that."

While Clint showers, Phil checks in. A mission, on Christmas, is not his idea of a present. There is a flight to Kyrgyzstan waiting for them. Phil really doesn't like Central Asia. He gets up, puts on coffee, making it extra strong, the way Clint likes it, then when he hears the water cut off in the guest bathroom, he takes a shower in the master. When he emerges from the bedroom, he's wearing one of his black Dolce suits, his hair combed, freshly shaven. 

Clint thinks he's pretty damn magnificent. He's dressed in his own clothes, drinking coffee. He hands a mug over to Phil. "Sitwell is prepping my gear. He'll meet us at the airport with Natasha. She got the call, too."

"I hate Kyrgyzstan," Phil says again.

"And I hate Budapest." Clint shrugs. He's used to going places most people would rather avoid. He follows Phil to the garage where they retrieve his car and drive to headquarters for a briefing before catching a chopper to the airport, where a jet is waiting to take them to their destination. 

Natasha is already on board. She gives them a look. "Nice of you to join me," she says. "I could handle this alone, but having company is more fun."

 _This_ is a drug lord importing opium from Afghanistan and selling it worldwide. Nothing new, but for the fact that this formula is laced with a deadly hallucinogen. Hydra is suspected to have provided the formula. People are dying, and nobody has the balls to go into the organization and take them down from the inside. Nobody but S.H.I.E.L.D. 

_Nobody but Clint_ , Coulson can read it in Natasha's eyes. He has a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he hides it well. Clint seems unconcerned, but his usual pre-mission ebullience is tempered as he reads the file, occasionally asking Coulson a question, biting his lip as he makes notes. The man he had held in his arms, who had laughed with his kisses, was gone, replaced by Agent Clint Barton, assassin and spy. Phil had made him into a weapon, Natasha had honed him, he is beautiful and deadly, like the bow in its case at his feet.

Finally, Clint closes the file and smiles at Coulson. "Easy-peasy," he says, and ignores Natasha's ladylike snort of derision. 

"I'll be with you," Coulson says. "You won't be alone."

Clint shouldn't find that as comforting as he does. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Kyrgyzstan is mountainous and cold as death. They arrive in a town of Sary Tash, a remote village with only some shop-cafes, a petrol station, and two guest houses. Clint, Coulson and Natasha take rooms in one of the guest houses and settle in. Clint and Phil are passing as a journalist and photographer, which gives Clint an excuse to carry a pack with a collapsable bow, arrows, and a sniper rifle. Natasha, exotic in a hijab and loose clothing, speaks enough of the local dialect to be understood and is introduced as their translator. 

For a week, they trek across the raw terrain surrounding the town, linger in the cafes and shops hoping for gossip, and eat meals of the ubiquitous goat and rice. Natasha complains that she is ready to kill for fresh fruits and vegetables. Clint, who has survived on pickings from dumpsters in the past is just happy that the tea is hot and strong. Coulson agrees with them both. 

The cold makes Clint miserable. His bones ache, his hands feel stiff, and at night he huddles under his blankets and shivers until Natasha takes pity on him and spoons around him on one side, while Phil watches for unusual activity in the town. The next night, Natasha watches and Phil lies close to Clint, listening to him breathe. This isn't desire or intimacy; it's not the first time they have done this for each other. 

By day, they drive a battered jeep into the hills and Clint takes pictures of stone hovels and the stunning landscape of the Hindu Kush in the near distance while Phil and Natasha talk to the inhabitants, cautiously probing for information under the guise of an interview for a travel magazine. It takes a week before they get their first lead. Natasha charms a young man into talking about his life; if he's ever wanted to move to a bigger city, to travel, to see what is beyond the mountains. He shyly tells her that he has been earning extra money by helping a foreign merchant carry goods through the mountain passes. When Natasha asks him what kind of goods, he shrugs, suddenly subdued. Natasha backs off immediately and asks him about his family. She knows she has something. 

Phil waits until they're back at the guesthouse before he asks. "You look like the cat that swallowed the canary, Natasha."

"The young man I spoke to admitted earning extra money by 'escorting' convoys of goods through the mountains."

"If you have legitimate cargo there are easier ways of getting it through the passes," Clint adds. "I think it's solid -- or worth checking out."

Phil had already figured that much out, he just wanted Clint's confirmation since he was the one that was staking out the pass. "It's cold up there," he said. "It will be a long night."

"I know that," Clint sounds exasperated. "I can deal with it."

 _I wish you didn't have to,_ Phil's eyes soften, but the words are silent. Clint shrugs one shoulder and goes to get his bow. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint watches the pass for eight hours, growing progressively colder despite the winter gear provided by S.H.I.E.L.D. Seriously, you'd think a government agency with the best scientific minds in the game would invent winter gear with mini-heaters in them. Chem-packs can only go so far. Finally, when dawn is starting to gray the eastern sky, he spots the convoy. The headlights are taped to show only a scant pinhead of light, but Clint's eyes are as sharp as the bird he's nicknamed for, Hawkeye.

"Little Hawk, do you see them?" Natasha's voice in his ear startles him. 

"Geez, Nat. I can hear you."

"Good." He can imagine her smile, that tiny curve at the corner of her lip. "Coulson says the job is a go."

"Got it."

"Be careful," this voice is Phil's, a whisper as soft as a caress. Clint closes his eyes for a second and listens to the sound of Phil's breath. It warms him to the heart. 

"On the way." He rapidly descends from the high ground to a rocky outcropping closer to the road. He nocks one of his incendiary arrows and when the convoy is so close he can smell the exhaust, he fires it. It explodes into a flash of phosphorescent light and the lead jeep swerves. Clint follows with an explosive arrow beneath the axles of the next truck. It topples on its side with a screech of metal and the blare of a horn. The canvas top rips and the cargo tumbles out. Bales of hay and metal boxes. Boxes? 

_Crap!_ Not just drugs, but FIM-Stingers, Clint knows that stamp on the boxes too well. "Stingers, Coulson!" He whispers urgently. "This is bigger than the intel Fury got from the WSC." 

"I see it," Coulson evidently has activated the satellite view on his Starkphone. "Time to fly, Hawk."

"I can get that guy," Clint insists. "It's chaos here. Give me fifteen minutes."

"You don't _have_ fifteen minutes. The chopper is on the way now." Coulson's voice is calm, underlying urgency only making his words sharp and hard as diamonds. 

Clint pulls out a tiny scope and holds it to his eye. The drug lord is in sight. "Gotta go. I'll be there."

"See that you are." 

"S'long as I've got you to pick me up."

"Not the time or the place," but the edge is off of his words. Clint smiles. He gets out his rifle. The bow, as much as he loves it, won't work in these quarters. The rifle isn't as elegant, but Clint's accuracy has never been in question. He puts the scope up, aligns his zero, waits for his target. The scope has one disadvantage; it narrows his field of vision to his target. He can't think about what is happening beyond the lens. He _feels_ it, though, worries about the Stingers being used against the chopper, but he can't focus on that, and he can't detonate the Stingers -- that would be insanity at the best, suicide at the worst. He's not eager to die, not with Coulson waiting for him. 

He acquires the target; a big, ugly S.O.B. who callously shoots one of his own men for arguing with him. He flicks on the laser, not because he needs it, but because he relishes the look of terror on the bastard's face when he sees the red dot travel up his body to his eye, and the moment of shock when Clint's bullet rips through his head. 

Clint doesn't relish his victory. He starts picking off the other bandits, keeping them away from the Stingers. He can hear the deep thrum of the chopper blades as the Blackhawk approaches. It would only take one missile to knock it out of the sky. He sees it, like a premonition of disaster. He drops his rifle, snaps his bow open and takes out an arrow with an EMG pulsor head, and out of the corner of his eye sees a man hoist a launcher to his shoulder. It is a risk, taking up his bow, and if this goes wrong, he'll regret it to the end of his days, which will be damn short. He takes a breath as the missile takes flight. He releases the arrow and the EMG pulse activates as it strikes the missile, completely disrupting the guidance system. The missile wobbles and rolls and plunges towards the earth. 

_Shit-damn-fuck!_ Clint hits the dirt at the same time the missile impacts on the slope overhead. It explodes, sending up a fountain of sparks, rocks, flames and smoke. The detonation deafens Clint, stuns him, and he can hardly breathe as his body is battered by rocks and debris. He feels the vibration of the chopper even though he can't hear it. There is blood in his mouth. He can feel it paint his smile. It hurts to breathe, to move. It doesn't matter. Coulson and Natasha are safe. The drug-lord is dead. He's done his duty and now he can rest ...

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _We've found him, sir."_

The voice of the para-rescue team leader comes through the speaker on the Black Hawk, and Natasha, her eyes unnaturally green in her too pale face buries her face in Coulson's chest. Finding Clint is one thing. Phil forces his voice to strength. "Is he alive? Is he _alive_?"

_Yes, sir. He's breathing, vitals weak but steady. We've got him on a backboard for transfer._

It can't be soon enough for Phil. He doesn't know if he should vent his anger or fall to his knees in prayer. Damn, Barton for ...

"I don't know if I should kill him or kiss him," Natasha says, her face still hidden in his chest. 

"I know what you mean," Phil replies, his heart telling him the truth, but his voice not betraying more than wry agreement. The bay door opens and the crew winches up the basket, while another brings in the para-rescue team. Phil gently disengages himself from Natasha. He takes her shoulders in his hands until she looks up at him, startled. "I need you to contact S.H.I.E.L.D. I need Black Widow."

Natasha blinks once. Her eyes focus sharply and she is back. She makes her way to the cockpit and reports back to Fury, her voice as calm and cool as if she hadn't been shaking in his arms a minute earlier. Phil loves her almost as much as he loves Clint at that moment. 

Barton is surrounded by the medics, one inserting an IV into his arm, another taking vitals, another checking his pupils then moving on to arms and legs. None of them look particularly worried, and the EKG is steady. Some of Phil's worry eases. Finally, one of the medics comes over to him. 

"How is he?" Phil asks, the words still thick in his throat.

"Stable. Without x-rays it's hard to tell if he has a concussion or something more serious. His left wrist and hand are damaged -- at least two fingers are badly broken, his wrist is most likely fractured. The rest of the damage seems to be limited to cuts and bruises. We won't know more until ... well, you know -- more tests and x-rays. I tell you, Agent Coulson, he is one tough dude."

Phil has to smile. "He's an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. We grow them that way." The medic laughs, returns to Clint's side. It's a throwaway answer. Clint's past is not up for discussion; thinking of it makes Phil's chest hurt. 

The flight takes an hour and a half, which seems like an eternity. Phil can't see much over the shoulder and backs of the medics, but he catches an occasional glimpse of Clint. He's pale, unmoving, silent. Phil wants to push everybody aside and take Barton's hand in his. He wants to speak reassuring words to him, smooth the rough hair from his forehead. He can't do any of that, he can only watch and wait. 

"Sir, we're getting ready to land."

Phil sits down and buckles his harness. Natasha sits next to him. She looks concerned, puts her hand on his arm. "How is he?"

"They say he's stable. We'll know more after he's in the base hospital at Bagram. Did you contact home?"

"They saw the whole thing on satellite. Mission accomplished."

He nods, crosses his arms and waits for the chopper to bump down on the helipad at Bagram. Once the rotors stop, a medical team rushes up with a gurney. Clint, strapped to a backboard, is transferred from the chopper and whisked away. This is getting entirely too familiar. He and Natasha follow the team into the base hospital. 

The hospital is equipped to treat everything from the common cold to severe trauma. Clint falls somewhere in the middle, but it's been a quiet night and Clint takes priority. Phil is grateful for a number of reasons, but Clint's care is foremost. He lets the doctors whisk Clint away for x-rays and CT scans. He knows Natasha is next to him, watching as anxiously as he is. When Clint is out of sight, he takes a deep breath. 

"He'll be all right."

"Of course." Her voice is soft. She sets a hand on his arm. "That is why you should get some food and rest."

"So should you."

"I -- I'm fine."

Phil looks at her, nods. "We'll both stay. For him."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He's in pain. Breathing hurts, his head aches, and his ears feel like they are stuffed with cotton. He can't move. Restraints bind his wrists and his legs. There is a gag over his mouth. He's been here more than once; bound, aching, cold and everything is confused in his brain like a nightmare filtered through filthy water. He tries to beg, _Don't hurt me!_ but the sound he makes his strangled in his throat and emerges as a sob that isn't recognizably human. He wants to cry ... but he knows he's not a child, he's a man and he can deal with this like he's done before. 

Strong hands are on his shoulder, a firm voice is speaking to him. "Clint, you're safe, nobody is going to hurt you. It's all right. You have to be still."  


Then somebody else speaks; feminine and gentle. "Little Hawk, shhh. You're safe."

He knows the voices. One is warm and comforting, the other sweet and sympathetic. Exotic. He opens his eyes. Not his father, not the Swordsman, not Barney. Phil. He is standing at Clint's side, his palms warm on Clint's shoulder, his kind eyes crinkled with worry. Natasha is at his other side, gently combing her fingers through his hair. She looks soft, sweet, like she had after they made love so many years ago. 

Clint blinks at them. He struggles against the mask over his nose and mouth. Phil pulls it away. "Where...?" His lungs hurt. Phil settles the mask again, hushing him with a touch on his cheek. 

"Don't try to talk. We're flying back to S.H.I.E.L.D. shortly, that's why you're restrained." Phil's thumb strokes across his inner wrist, against the tender skin. Clint sighs. He looks at Natasha. Her eyes have widened, her mouth soft as she smiles. 

"We'll be with you all the way. We won't leave you alone."

He nods, his eyelids are heavy. A nurse comes in and covers him with a heated blanket. She injects something into his IV that sends him back to sleep. The last things he is aware of are the rhythmic brush of Phil's thumb against his skin and Natasha's kiss on his temple.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint's injuries are extensive, but not life-threatening. Bruised lungs, cracked ribs, a concussion -- thankfully no skull fracture -- his broken wrist and fingers that will require surgery and rehab, all complicated by an infection, and the threat of pneumonia. He's so pumped full of antibiotics and drugs that he's both doped up and miserable. Coughing is agony, his fever occasionally spikes into delirium, and the cast on his arm is bulky and awkward. 

When he finally drifts up to full consciousness, he's not alone. Natasha is crocheting a blanket in a vivid yarn shaded from violet to palest lavender, her head bent over, her vibrant hair falling over her face. "Tasha?" he croaks. 

She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks up at him. "Finally, you're awake."

"Finally?"

"It's been almost a week, Little Hawk, since we brought you home." She holds out a cup of ice chips and slides one between his lips. While it melts, he thinks about time lost for a while.

"Where's Coulson?"

"He's human. He has to sleep occasionally. He's been here nearly around the clock. The doctor finally told him if he didn't eat and sleep, he would be a patient right along with you." 

"I never asked ..."

"No, you never ask for anything for yourself," Natasha puts the afghan down. 

"I ask all the time," he objects.

"You ask for weapons, for training, for equipment. You never ask for anything for yourself, but you should."

Clint sets his mouth in a firm line, because if he doesn't, it will quiver. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Coulson."

"What does Phil have to do with that?"

Natasha sighs. "You love him. It's all right to be loved in return."

Clint doesn't want to talk about it. He lays back and resolutely closes his eyes. "I'm tired. Go away." When Natasha says something obscene in Russian, he sighs. "You have to be tired, Nat. Go and rest. I'm not going to die."

"You better not, Little Hawk," she kisses his forehead, hard and fierce. "but if you don't do something about Coulson, I might have to kill you."

"Gee, thanks, Nat. That'll do wonders for my recovery," he mumbles, but this time he really does drop off to sleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

When he wakes up, Phil is sitting in the chair and Natasha's purple afghan is on the bed. It's warm and light and it makes the hospital room seem less institutional. He lies still for a while, keeping his breathing even, watching Phil, who is immersed in something on his StarkTab. His jacket is across the back of his chair. His shirt is rumpled, and his glasses are perched on the end of his nose. Clint thinks he looks adorable. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and his forearms are hard and muscular. He hears Natasha's voice, _You never ask for anything for yourself, but you should ... It's all right to be loved in return._ Even if she's right, Clint isn't sure he has the right to assume that Phil loves him. Yeah, they had been better than good at making out, and if they ever fucked, he's pretty sure that Phil would be great in bed, but that didn't mean love. He's fucked before without love, without emotion, and it had felt okay. Then there had been times when he'd been fucked and ended up hurt, sick and degraded. He's not stupid. He knows he's a mess. How healthy is it that the one person he talks to is as damaged and dangerous as he is? 

Phil? Phil has like six diplomas on his wall and his ties cost more than Clint's entire civilian wardrobe. He wears suits that are perfectly tailored and that feel like butter to Clint's fingers. He has a _family_ who call and send Christmas and birthday cards. He has pictures on his wall of his sisters and their children. 

What does Clint have? A bow and better than perfect eyesight. Scars and a brother who vanished from his life. 

"You're awake." Phil sets aside his work. 

"Sort of." His lips feel like they're about to crack open and bleed. He doesn't have the spit to wet them. His eyes flick to the cup of water on his bedside table.

Phil, who never misses even a flicker of his eyelashes, holds the cup of and straw to his mouth. "Slowly," he admonishes.

"I know that," Clint grumps. "This isn't my first rodeo."

"Carnival?" Coulson's eyes crinkle, and Clint tries not to laugh because it hurts. He fails.

"Ow, ow ... don't make me laugh, Coulson."

Phil's eyes soften. He picks up a small tube of soothing salve and runs a gentle finger across Clint's lips. "You should rest," he says. 

Clint is still feeling the draw of Phil's fingers across his lips. He wants more, but he can't take more or ask for more. He closes his eyes and lets the drugs take him away again. 

That's his life for the next week; brief periods of consciousness, long stretches of sleep, punctuated my moments of pain. His infection returns and with it feverish dreams that he doesn't remember, but that he sees reflected in Phil and Natasha's expressions of concern and sympathy. He hates it, but it isn't like he has any control, and he suspects Phil knows most of the worst parts of his life and Natasha _understands_ the worst parts of his life. 

Finally, _finally_ , he starts getting better. He can sit up for more than five minutes, he graduates from soup and custards to real food -- not that the food in medical is particularly appetizing, but for a man who spent most of his life wondering where his next meal was coming from, he's not that fussy. He can see how thin his wrist is -- the one not in the cast -- and can't help hoping that maybe Coulson would feed him up, if only to protect a valuable asset. 

He finishes his meal and pushes the table away. He falls back on his pillows with a sigh. He's watched every show on TV, he's run out of distractions on the tablet Phil left for him, reading still makes his head hurt. He can't even sleep. He feels like he's slept out for the next ten years. He looks longingly up at the air duct. 

"Don't think of it. Don't even look at it." Phil comes in. He looks tired, rumpled and there is a smudge of dirt on his cuff. 

"Rough night?" Clint asks.

"Oh, here and there." Phil smiles wearily. "I saw the doctor. She said it's time for you to get out of bed and start moving around before you turn into a mushroom."

"It's about time," Clint starts getting up and Phil is there, his hand on his shoulder, restraining him. "What?"

"I can't pick you up off the floor when you topple over," Phil says. "Let's wait for an orderly."

He doesn't want an orderly. He wants Phil's arm around him, Phil's shoulder for support, but he'll wait because he really doesn't want to fall into a heap of helplessness at Phil's feet. When the orderly gets him up on his feet, he's rewarded by Phil's arm around his other side. Ten steps and ten back ... how pathetic is that? He's shaking by the time he makes it back to the bed. 

"It will get better," Phil, says as he pulls the blankets over Clint's legs. His hand lingers briefly on Clint's thigh. "See you tomorrow." His blue eyes are kind, but tired. 

"Is Natasha back?" Clint asks, worried because she hasn't been to see him.

"Due in tonight. I'll tell her to stop by to tuck you in." The crinkles around Phil's eyes deepen with laughter. Clint would roll his eyes, but he can't because he'd like that, and it's something he knows he doesn't have to ask for himself, because Phil has done it for him. Knowing he has them watching out for him makes him feel as if he is a piece of fragile glass wrapped up in cotton wool for safekeeping. Unsettling, but comforting. He's never had that, not even as a child. Phil takes his wrist in his hand, his fingers encircling the bone. "You need to eat," he says gently. 

"I ate. I think they gave me Lean Cuisine." Clint makes a wry face at his bedside table. "They must want me to keep my girlish figure."

Phil laughs, but there is underlying anger. "I'll see what I can do."

"Bring me pizza from Alfonso's?" Clint says hopefully.

"If I get the go ahead from the doctors."

"Please, boss. Don't make me suffer through another plate of microwaved vegetable lasagna. My stomach is fine." 

Phil's thumb strokes the tender skin of his inner wrist. "Get some sleep." 

Clint would protest that he's not tired, but the truth is, his body aches with fatigue, and his eyes are drooping. He doesn't want Phil to stop that gentle caress but he doesn't know how to ask him to stay. He lets his body give in to what it needs. He falls asleep to the gentle rhythm of Phil's thumb. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

After Clint falls asleep, Phil goes back to his office. He's tired. His bones hurt and his eyes are burning, but he can't allow himself the luxury of sleep until he makes the preliminary report on the night's incident. It was domestic terrorism; a series of car bombs. Two exploded injuring six civilians, the other two were discovered and disarmed by the S.H.I.E.L.D. demolitions team. A year ago, Phil would have written the report and filed it away; but lately, he's been getting a bad feeling about some of the cases S.H.I.E.L.D. was called on to investigate. He feels like there is an emerging pattern and that makes him uneasy. He writes it up, sends his report on to Maria Hill, who will coordinate with their analysts to see if they can detect the pattern that Phil may be too close to the cases to see. 

He's just about to shut down his computer, when Natasha appears in his doorway. She has a butterfly bandage on her forehead, and the bruise around the cut is starting to blossom against her pale skin. She is wearing yoga pants and a S.H.I.E.L.D. sweatshirt that is too large for her, and makes her seem fragile. It's an illusion, Phil knows, but it still worries him. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"Medical says I am." She shrugs, expressive in the way Americans never quite pull off with the expressive aplomb of Europeans. "I'm not here about me." She sits on Phil's couch, tucks her feet up gracefully and gives him an appraising look from her cat-eyes. "When are you going to tell Clint that you are in love with him?"

Phil's first instinct is to deny it. His second is to sit back in his chair and look at her over steepled fingers. "Why would you think that?" His voice is calm with a little chill in it; his "official" tone when speaking to an erring trainee. It usually leaves them quaking in their shoes and running for cover as soon as they've been dismissed. 

Natasha snorts. "That might work on the baby agents, but you should know me." She uncurls and sits upright and focuses on him intently. "You've always taken care of him; been gentle with him. Even when you're angry you never hurt him. When he smiles, you light up. When he's injured, you stay with him until you're certain he will be all right. You make sure he eats. When he's sick, you feed him chicken soup. Should I go on?" She lifts a brow and Phil sighs and his hands relax even if his body doesn't. 

"No. I didn't know I was so transparent."

"You're not. Only to me, because I love him, too. Though not, I think, in the same way." She smiles softly. "You have to tell him, because he will never ask."

Phil shields his eyes with his hand, "I know."

"Well, then ... my work is done." She stands up, wincing, then holds up her hand as if to fend off Phil's concern. "It is nothing a hot bath and some ibuprofen will not cure." She inclines her head in farewell and leaves, her posture as straight and graceful as a dancer's.

Right now, a hot bath and ibuprofen sound like a good idea to Phil. There is something he needs to do first. He turns off his desk lamp and heads towards the elevator that takes him to the medical floor. 

Clint is asleep; turned very slightly on his side. His hair sticking up in cowlicks like a kid's, his eyelashes dark and sooty on his cheeks. There is a faint flush of color on his skin -- not the unhealthy flush of fever, but the flush of warmth and easy sleep. His good hand is palm up, fingers curled softly. How can Phil deny his feelings when his heart is melting in his chest? 

He pulls the hard chair over to the bedside and gently, cautiously, sets his hand in Clint's. The fingers curl over his. Phil decides he can sit like this for as long as he has to, for as long as Clint will let him.

When Clint wakes up, Phil's fingers have slipped away, but he is sound asleep, his head cushioned on his arms. Clint feels safe. He feels like he's never felt before. He's confused by everything; why Phil _cares_ so damn much. Why he matters, why he's sleeping, his body bent at an impossible angle, his fingers brushing Clint's, when he could be comfortable at home in his own bed. It's not like Clint is in any danger or pain. Why is he here? 

Clint can't deny that he's warmed to the very core of his being by Coulson's presence. He decides not to over-think this. He settles back and watches Phil sleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Three days later, the doctors tell Clint he's being released. They give him a bottle of antibiotics, vitamins and pain pills with instructions on how they should be taken, and firm warnings about physical exertion, symptoms to watch for, and a schedule of follow-up visits. Clint sighs in annoyance because it's not like he'll be off site. He'll be in his quarters, bored to tears, and itching from the cast on his hand. He's been in worse situations. He'll survive this. 

He's dressed, mostly, except for the awkward sleeve of his S.H.I.E.L.D. sweatshirt which has caught on his cast, when Coulson comes in. He dares Coulson to laugh, but Phil just takes out his Swiss Army knife and cuts the cuff.

"Hey," Clint objects. "That's mine."

"I'll get another one for you," Coulson says calmly. 

Clint has a sudden need to lie back against the pillows, exhausted by his struggle with the shirt. " _Fuck_ ," he sighs. "Thanks."

Phil crosses his arms and gives Clint a considering look. "The doctors think you'll be all right on your own?"

"I will be."

"Seriously? It doesn't look like it."

"You have a degree from what school of medicine?"

"Barton -- Clint, come home with me. Stay at my place until you're stronger."

"Got to protect your assets?"

"No, I want you to be ... safe."

"I'm in S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. How much safer can I be?" He wants more than anything to tell Phil, _Yes, take me home, please_ , but he's not sure he has the right to ask. 

"Clint, will you come home with me?" Phil looks at him with those kind, kind eyes, and Clint swallows. 

"For a few days," Clint agrees. "Until I'm steady on my feet."

"Good." Phil wonders how they went from kisses to putting to this distance between them. Agonizing over it wouldn't get them out of medical. Phil shoves emotion back in the box. The orderly comes with a wheelchair, which Clint glares at rebelliously until Phil reminds him that it's a long way from medical to the garage and he is not going to pick Clint up off the floor. 

Phil pulls his car up to the entry and the orderly settles Clint in the passenger seat. Phil reaches over and buckles his seat belt. He can feel the warmth of Clint's body, the feather-light touch of his breath. He also notices the hitch in it when he's close, and he looks up. "Sorry."

"Why?" Clint blinks at him. 

"Your ribs."

"No, I'm fine." Clint deliberately is not looking at Phil. "Go. I'm good."

Phil narrows his eyes, but pulls out of the garage. His apartment is only a few blocks from S.H.I.E.L.D., but traffic is a mess. It takes nearly thirty minutes at a slow crawl to reach the parking garage. Fortunately, the building isn't one of the huge high-rises, it's off the main drag on a street of similar brownstone buildings, and miracle of miracles, it has a covered parking garage in the back. Phil wheels into the space and turns off the ignition. The dome light comes on, and Phil takes a good look at Clint.

He has white patches of pain at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn't say a word as he waits for Phil to release the seat belt and help him out of the car with as little twisting and pressure on is ribs as he can manage. From the garage, it's a short walk through a covered breezeway to the lobby. Phil unlocks the door, half-carries Clint into the elevator, and finally opens his front door. By now, Clint's breathing is short and shallow, and he's given up the pretense of standing upright. Phil gets him in the door and lowers him to the couch. 

Clint sinks down into the cushions. Everything is grayed out with pain and exhaustion. He closes his eyes and tries ride through it. He should be better at this by now. 

"Clint ... " 

"What?"

"Pain meds."

Clint opens his eyes to Coulson's concerned face swimming into focus. "Yeah, thanks." He takes the pills from Phil's palm and downs them with the glass of water Phil hands him. "Bed?" He asks, thinking that if he waits any longer, the pills will send him to sleep right there on Coulson's couch. 

"Sure." Phil helps him to his feet, walks him to the guest bedroom and reappears with sleep pants and another Captain America T-shirt. 

Clint manages a smile. "How many of these do you have?" he asks, wanting to laugh, but unable to muster the energy.

"Someday, I'll tell you." His hands are gentle as he pulls the S.H.I.E.LD. hoodie over Clint's good arm and then even more gently maneuvers the cuff over his cast. His hands are warm on Clint's shoulders, the touch too brief and achingly tender as he slips the T-shirt over him. He kneels and unlaces Clint's sneakers, helps him stand as he strips off the sweatpants and replaces them with the flannel sleepwear. 

By then, Clint is half-passed out. He's vaguely aware of Coulson settling him back against the pillows and pulling a warm, light blanket up over his shoulders. "Thanks," he murmurs, and then softly, "Stay with me? Cold ..."

"Soon." Phil's fingers brush through his hair. A few minutes later, when he's out of his suit and into his own pajamas, Clint is already asleep. Phil had made a promise, and he intends to keep it. He slides under the covers and lies next to Clint. The archer's body is cool and he curls into Phil's warmth with a sigh. 

Phil is shaken by Clint's trust and vulnerability. He tells himself it's the pain medications, the pain itself. He has never thought it might be him; his presence, his strength, his promise, made when he brought Clint into S.H.I.E.L.D., when instead of sending him to prison, Phil vowed that he would _never_ , under circumstances less dire than his own death, abandon Clint. 

He had no idea what those words meant to Clint ... but maybe now, in this small safe place, with Barton breathing easily next to him, he is beginning to understand. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
Three days later, Clint is feeling much more sturdy and less transparent. His pain level has fallen from being all-encompassing, to the sort of annoying constant ache that he can manage with OTC medications instead of the heavy-duty painkillers. He's tackled showers and shaving with a minimum of aid, thankfully, because having Phil that close to his skin and wanting more, is almost as tiring as the physical effort involved. 

Phil cooks, and when he can't cook, he orders Clint's favorite dishes from the variety of take-out menus he's accumulated. After that first night, Clint has slept well without Coulson being in the same bed -- not that he would have minded -- but it's good to know that he _can_ sleep alone. 

By the end of the week, he's ready to move back into his quarters. He's bored, his cast itches, and he has too much physical energy to lie around on the couch. He can't do much, but he has to do _something_ to feel useful. Friday, at breakfast, as Phil dishes out scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, Clint makes his decision. He has to go into S.H.I.E.L.D. for a check-up. He might as well stay there.

"I'm ready to go back to my quarters." He can't call it 'home' because it really isn't, not like Phil's apartment is a home. 

Phil doesn't argue. "You're not a burden," he says.

"Thanks, but I am." He takes a swallow of Phil's excellent coffee. "Besides, I'll be starting rehab soon. It's easier to be on-site, for both of us."

Phil sits. "And if I said I'd like you to stay?"

Clint's heart gives a thump in his chest. "I'd say, ask me when I'm one hundred percent."

The tips of Phil's ears pink up. "I'll do that," he says. 

Clint is absurdly pleased and warmed. He finishes his breakfast and they drive to work. Clint pauses in the lobby where Phil will get on one elevator while he gets on another. "See you around, boss." He smiles and Phil nods as he steps through the opening doors. 

The first thing Phil does is pay a delayed visit to Nick Fury. He's been holding this in for a while, but it's time Fury got an earful about Clint, injuries and the medical staff. 

Fury looks at him over peaked fingers. "So, the hawk is back in his nest?"

"Agent Barton returned to his quarters," Phil's voice is cold. "We need to talk."

"Sounds serious. Have a seat."

Phil does, and looks at Fury intently."It is serious. Barton should never have been discharged in the shape he was in. I want to know who decided that he was able to be self-sufficient when he was clearly barely able to stand upright."

Nick sighs and presses a button on his desk. "Send Dr. Baldwin to my office." Nick listens for a moment as the receptionist babbles something about Baldwin being on rounds. "I don't care if he's making the rounds with the President of the United States. I want him up here, now. Is that clear? Good."

"So, give me the background from your point of view."

"I'll wait for Baldwin. I don't want to repeat myself. It's not complicated."

Dr. Baldwin is relatively young, somewhat arrogant, and comes in looking like his time and his job are the most important on the planet. "Talk fast, I don't have time ..." 

"Sit _down_ , doctor. I'll have you back in medical in a few minutes, but right now, Agent Coulson would like a few words."

"If you're here about Agent Barton, he's scheduled for a follow-up --"

"Did you examine Agent Barton before you approved his discharge orders?"

"According to the severity of his injuries and his response to treatment, I felt he was able to leave medical."

Phil's hands tighten on the arm of his chair as if he'd like to wrap them around the doctor's throat instead. "There is no way on earth that Barton was able to be on his own. If I hadn't taken him home, he would have spent the night -- or perhaps longer -- on the floor of his quarters, sick, in pain and alone."

"Help is never more than a phone call away," Baldwin says. "We're only one floor below him."

"He wouldn't have called for help," Phil says. 

"Then he's a fool," Baldwin snaps.

"He's an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.," Fury says, his voice taut as he leans forward. "He's trained to resist pain, but that doesn't mean he can't feel it, Baldwin." 

"I don't have this problem with other agents," Baldwin sounds like he's whining, and Phil can't keep quiet any longer.

"He's not other agents! His background should have given you a few clues on that. He was abused by his father, scared out of his wits to tell anybody because he would have been taken away from his brother and mother. While he was in foster care, he learned not to talk about being sick or feeling pain because it was a sign of weakness and weakness would leave him the target of predators. In the carnival, being sick or hurt meant he couldn't work. He would have no value if he couldn't draw a bow. His brother abandoned him after a beating by his 'mentor' put him in the hospital. All his life, injury and illness have resulted in abandonment and loss of security and self-worth. Of course, he won't admit to pain!" Coulson's fury leaves him feeling nauseous. 

Doctor Baldwin is actually pale. "I'm sorry, Agent Coulson. We treat the body. Character traits aren't part of our diagnosis." 

Fury glares at Baldwin. "Do your research, Doctor. Working at S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't the same as working at a hospital. Our agents are not simple; their training is complex, and we don't always hire people who fit 'normal' psychological profiles. We hire extraordinary people, not perfect ones. If you can handle that, you're welcome to stay. If not, then we will release you from your contract without prejudice and with excellent references."

Baldwin rises. "I applied for this position because I wanted to work with extraordinary people. Perhaps you should rethink your wording on your job postings. Extraordinary -- doesn't seem to cover all the bases. I'm sorry for this misunderstanding. It won't happen again." 

"You'll stay?"

"If Agent Coulson will accept my apology?"

Phil isn't vindictive. He is still shaking from his outburst, and he wants to run down to Clint's quarters to make sure he's all right. None of that shows outwardly. He nods. "Accepted."

Baldwin leaves, looking a lot younger and more chastened than he had when he entered. Nick frowns at Phil. "You reamed him a new one, Coulson."

"Clint Barton -- all of our agents -- deserve the best." He sees the sharp look in Fury's eye and wonders how much he's given away in this fight. 

"Hmm." Fury picks up his pen. "Go check up on that archer of yours, then go home and get some perspective." 

"Perspective, sir?"

"You know what I mean, Coulson."

"My perspective is fine, sir. I'll be in my office doing paperwork." 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint isn't in his quarters. He is, however, in Phil's office, stretched out on the couch and wrapped to the chin in the afghan Natasha crocheted for him. He looks too comfortable to be disturbed, so Phil starts up him computer and starts working on the several days of paperwork he's let lapse while Clint needed him at the apartment. 

It isn't until the growing darkness makes it necessary to turn on his desk lamp that Clint stirs and stretches cautiously. He blinks owlishly at Phil. He sits up slowly. "I've been asleep for a long time."

"A few hours. You needed it." 

"The docs say I'm doing good." 

"I'm glad." Phil turns off his computer. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat." He rubs his eyes. "Meet you in the cafeteria?"

"Are you sure? I was going to order in."

"It's mac and cheese night." Clint grins at Coulson's expression of doubt. He's one of the few S.H.I.E.L.D. employees who _likes_ the bright orange pasta concoction. He also knows that it's apple pie night, and that's the real draw. 

Phil helps Clint up from the couch and folds the afghan up. He starts handing it to Clint; they're close and he can see the amazing lights and colors in the irises of Clint's eyes. They make him a little breathless. "Someday, I'll make you macaroni and cheese so good that you'll be spoiled for everything else."

"Seriously?"

"My grandmother's recipe is legend." 

"It's a date." Clint's eyes widen as he realizes what he's said, a brief panic in them.

Phil decides now is not the time to back off. He's cared for Clint, defended him, protected him. He wraps his fingers around Clint's forearm and leans in. "Absolutely," he whispers, and kisses him. 

_This is right,_ Phil thinks, and he hopes Clint feels the same way. 

"Wow," Clint says breathlessly. "Christmas Eve was good, but this ... just, yeah." His beautiful mouth is soft and tilted up at the corners. 

"It will get better," Phil promises. 

Clint believes him. He believes Phil Coulson as he has never believed anybody in his life. Feeling as he does, he doesn't know if it can get better, but he's willing to take that leap of faith.

**TBC**


End file.
